


Crescendo

by TaraethysHolmes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boat Sex, F/M, boat scene, se07ep07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: "This is the end, and the beginning. This is the crescendo of the song, the climax of the battle.This is the moment where their two threads of life become a single, thick, strong thread that cannot break. This is the spark and explosion as their fires both meet together and burn brightly and hotly, brighter than anything else in existence."For Jon Snow, going to Daenerys on the boat returning to Winterfell is the beginning and the end.





	Crescendo

The boat gently rocks under Jon’s feet as he stands in front of the huge wooden door. A three-headed dragon, hammered into the wood, glows dully in the light of the torches nearby, the wood panelling giving off the slight scent of linseed oil. 

He feels like every single sense in his body is lit up, attuned to every single creak and groan in the hull. He can sense the footsteps of other people just around the corner, far away from this more deserted, more private corner of the great ship. 

Outside, the night is clear, and cold. 

But inside, everything is on fire. He can feel the fibres as they lay against his skin, the heavy clothes he wears weighing him down. 

Jon closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, before opening them again. 

In the pit of his belly, snakes are coiling and curling around his insides, squeezing them tightly together. He is a bundled mess of nerves — he has no idea what is going to happen next, even though he finds he cannot bring himself to care. This, this, right here, is everything that he felt was wrong. He knew that what may transpire over the next few minutes, hours, days, even, is wrong. That it will do more harm than good. 

Again, he cannot bring himself to care. 

There is, of course, the chance that she will just turn him away. There is that chance that she will take one look at him and close the door in his face. 

But he feels like that chance is slim. Because Jon Snow is not a fool. Because he has seen the gazes that she has cast him, the desperation in her eyes when she tried to make him stay on Dragonstone, the jewelled tears shimmering in the weak light on the ship after his rescue, the clutch of her small, warm hand in his. 

That touch. 

He allows himself a moment to remember the feeling of her skin under his. 

She was so, so warm, like she had a fire burning under her skin, roaring through her veins. She truly was a dragon, he supposed.

Taking another deep breath, and steeling his nerves as much as he possibly can, he raises his fist. Before he can have a chance to second guess himself, he raps sharply on the wood. The three knocks that his fist makes ring out in the silence, and he feels like they are deafening. 

Immediately, his hand drops back to his side, and he looks away. He is suddenly sure that she won’t answer, that she will know it is him, and that she will reject him, turn him away. 

Because he has to be wrong, right? He has to be mistaken. This is the _Mother of Dragons,_ the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the last Targaryen, and what? He expects to just fall into bed with her? 

Before he can walk away, the door creaks, and clicks, and groans open. 

At first, she is looking down, at where her hand is resting on the inner knob of the door, but then she casts her gaze upwards, and those violet eyes capture him completely. Just like the first time he saw her, he feels like he is drowning in their depths, desperately swimming with just his face above water, trying to keep afloat. 

Then again, what is so wrong with drowning? 

In the firelight, her caramel face is cast half in shadow. Her pouty lips are pursed, tightly, and he can see around her eyes the first lines of stress and worry. Those lines instantly smooth when she processes who is standing at her door like an offering to the gods. 

Her hair is glowing, white brilliance cut through by the shadows of intricate braids around the crown of her head. It falls like a waterfall around her slim shoulders, casting a stark contrast to the dress she is clothed in. 

There is something about her eyes, the set of her shoulders, that gives her a sudden look of innocence. 

Jon is perfectly aware, as she had outlined, that she is far from innocent, that she knows what could happen here, and yet. Yet her eyes shimmer in the firelight, looking up at him, wide and innocent. Yet her shoulders are tucked in against her, her other hand loose and limp by her side, clenching against folds of black. Yet the hollow of her throat moves as she swallows, and Jon wants to lick there, touch her, and take away any sort of innocence that she feels, make her all the more confident. 

He realises that perhaps, in this, she is not as confident as she wants others to believe. He realises that perhaps she doesn’t want to control this as she controls every other aspect of her life, and now their shared, joined lives. 

Because he knows that, now. He knows that their lives are joined, twisted together by the romance of notions such as destiny and fate, and that together they must shape the world into what their vision is for it to become. 

He wants to make her Queen. He has seen her heart, he has seen her cry tears of gratitude at his belief in, and acceptance of her. He has seen her work hard, throw her very life and soul into what she believes in, just to make this broken hell-hole of a world into a better place for every single being within it. 

She is not a saint. He knows that. She is iron-willed, she is strong, she will fight, and she will draw blood if she needs to, if she finds it necessary, and he finds that he can’t fault her for that. He has done the same thing, really. 

And now here he stands. Ready, on the precipice, on the knife’s edge, ready to fall for her, ready to die for her, but most importantly, ready to _live_ for her, to entwine their lives together even further than they already are, and all he can think is how hard it is going to be to untangle them now. 

Because he can read the look in her eyes, as well. 

He watches her as she takes a breath in, her lips parting slightly, reddened in the firelight. He watches her accept, and push the door away from her, allowing him room to step through. Their eye contact doesn’t break, not for a single moment, each other’s intent obvious in every nuance. 

Her shimmering eyes captivate him even more, moment by moment. 

He only turns away from her for a brief moment, but he can feel her eyes raking his back. He turns, and takes hold of the door that she had just been grasping, and shuts it behind himself. It creaks shut silently, closing out the rest of the world, like a barrier stopping everything and everyone. 

This is them, this is now, and this is what _they_ want. 

It is that moment of surrender, on both their parts, from the moment that they met. The culmination of every shared look, every heated touch, every word spoken. This is _it,_ and Jon can’t find anything else to describe it. 

The door shuts, and their eyes lock, and the moment carries on, and on, and on. 

No words are necessary. That is their silent agreement. 

If words are used, it makes what is happening all the more real, and right now, Jon feels like he is in a dream. The entire affair is hazy around the edges, dusky and muted, as if this is all just some memory forgotten in the winds of time, and yet, it is so real. It is the breath in his lungs, the blood in his veins, and nothing will be able to take this memory away from him. 

The space between them falls away as if it never existed, and the first touch of lips is bright, and sharp, and oh so _real_ that it is almost painful. 

Her lips move under his, biting and licking and exploring and her tongue slips in just a few moments later. She is tentative, hesitant, unsure, and yet Jon wants nothing more. 

If this was as far as they went, he would die a happy man, but he knows, now, that she will not settle for something as simple as this. For in the face of it, this is just another small tangle, and he realises that if they go through with this, the threads of their lives will not only become tangled, but will become singular. They will weave and bind together and there is no going back. This is the beginning and the end for him, and that is final. 

There is nothing for it. 

Desperation mars their exchange, now. Tongues press against tongues, and in his impatience, he cannot stand the thought of anything between them anymore. 

This is what he has been waiting for, his whole life. This is what he has been searching for, and damn him if he isn’t going to take it right in this moment. 

The sound of tearing fabric fills the room, as he realises he, in his rush, has torn clean through the fabric that she wears. 

He feels her lips turn up in the corners against his, but she doesn’t say a word, not confident enough to be the one to break their silent pact. 

She is more patient, strikingly enough. The buckles of his thick chest piece are easy enough to unfasten, and with small, deft fingers, she works away the fabric, leaving just his thin tunic behind, to match the one that she also wears. 

Now, pressed together, there is only two thin sheets of fabric between them. Her hands are roaming, now across his broad shoulders and large arms. In return, he skates over her curves, her waist, and the smooth sweep of her hips. 

The warmth of her flesh is sapping through the sheets of fabric, and it is still not enough. He is hungry, starving, and he is a man who was alone on the saltwater, and has been staring at the feast on dry land for weeks, now. 

He steps back, disengaging from her lips, and pulls his tunic over his head. His skin, open to the air, begins to cool, and he watches as her eyes roam up and down his body. 

Her gaze trails warmly over his shoulders, across his broad chest, and down past the scars across his heart and belly. He knows that she has seen them — when he was being cared for on the ship, he had seen her gaze upon them in curiosity, and wonder. 

She knows what happened to him, of that he is certain. It would have been child’s play for her to work it out. She knows what he has done, and will do, for his people, for those who he saw needing his protection. He has given just as much as she has given, and she recognises this perhaps better than anyone else. 

She realises that he can raise her up, that he will carry her dream on his bare back if necessary, and that he will draw her closer to the finishing line than ever thought possible. Her dream is within her fingers and she knows that he will give her everything she needs to take it, whether that be his sword or his life. 

But, for now, it is time. Enough of the outside, because this is them, and this is now, and this is just what has been boiling under the surface from the very moment of their eyes first locking. 

Her gaze comes to rest hungrily on the thickness between his thighs, and Jon feels a sort of pride at being able to capture her attention. 

She is there, and she reaches up to grasp his face, to welcome his lips with her own, and to run her hands across his face. 

Her tunic is far simpler, coming away with the simple loosing of a single tie at the front. It pools around their feet, the cool fabric at his toes. Their tongues are twisting against each other now, and he explores her mouth, the bumps along the roof of the tiny cavern, the rounds of her teeth, the edges of her tastebuds. 

She tastes just as she smells, of ashes and of fire, and sweetly burning incense from Asshai. She is richly vibrant in life and in scent and in taste, and every single one of his senses is taken up in enjoying her. It is intoxicating, the feeling of her warm body pressed against his own, Her curves are gentle against his harder ridges, her small hands tiny in comparison to his own. 

Releasing her for the second time, he steps back, and draws her towards the bed against the wall. The sheets upon it are thin, and soft, as he takes a seat, and then pulls her on top of him. She lays in the cradle of his legs, her entire form pressed weightily against his own, her soft skin glowing. 

Their lips meet once more in a fiery blaze of sensation, as they fight, now. There is a sudden sense of urgency in their movements that hadn’t existed before, and it pushes them both to run their hands all across each others’ bodies, trying to map out every ridge, mark and edge. 

This may be the first, but it feels like the last, as well, and while neither can stand that thought, they cannot completely rule it out. Right now they are _them_ , but they both have roles to play, lives to lead, duties to fill. It is all very well and good to have a _now,_ but they both must also have a future. 

But now this _is_ them. This _is_ the world, and that is all that either need to know to run their hands across each muscle, across each curve and over each scar. Someday, they will have time to go slow, they will have time, perhaps, to talk about every scar, and every story, and everything that will come with time, but right now all that matters is the other. 

Kisses, kisses, and Jon breaks away to bite and lick and run his tongue over her soft neck. Gasps are the first noises that she makes, and her fingers pinch into his sides as he begins to trail back up to her face, to curl in the hair that he can capture, free from her braids. 

They are trying to absorb one another, to bring the other into their bodies’ and curl around them, make them more together than they possibly can be. 

Jon is conflicted, he cannot see her eyes. He wants those eyes, he wants to accept his fate, to drown, sink into their violet depths and never, ever come out, but he cannot without eye contact. 

With a gasp of shared breath, their thoughts one, their foreheads pressed together, he cannot give up the heavy weight of her on him, but also wants to feel the strength of her under him. They rock together, and together they flip, so she is finally under him. 

And finally, the hardness between his legs has access to her most sacred place. 

They rock, together, his soft, plush tip leaking against her warmth, liquid seeping into her folds. The curves of her breasts under him casts shadows against her caramel skin, and he is entranced until their lips meet again, and Jon is immediately reminded of what he had to give up to stare at her _breasts_ of all things. 

They are unimportant at the moment. What is important is her lips, and her soft wetness against his most sensitive parts. 

He surges against her, just circlng her entrance, hesitant and sure at the same time. 

Their lips break apart, and their eyes open once more, and meet together in a clash of gazes. There is no fight here, there is no battle, no war to be won. This is just _them._ This is what they want, and there is a silent agreement between them. 

Jon feels like he is fighting a war, instead, with himself, between what he really wants and what he should want. What he wants is right here, in his hand. Her head seems so tiny in his grasp, so fragile. The tip of his thumb catches in her hair, smooths over her cheekbone, and what he wants is so strong that he cannot help it. 

He feels something stirring in his belly, as her deep, soulful gaze captures him, takes him prisoner, and sets him on fire. This is everything that he has every wanted, ever dreamed of. He feels like he has been searching for this his entire life, and everything will turn out just fine now that he has found it. Jon Snow is no fool, he knows that is not reality, that this is just a hazy dream that ma be forgotten in the shifting sands of history, the quagmire of memory that will surely be the only permanent reminder of this. 

But her gaze captivates him. She is _everything._ He can see the entire world, everything that is known and everything that is unknown in her eyes. He is narrowed down to just this, to just her, and that is absolutely fine. 

He is lost to her. 

Surging forwards again, he draws her into him, just as she allows him entrance. Her folds accept him, her body accepts him, and he is harder than he has ever been before. These thrusts are sharp, hurried, and her warmth around him is tight, unyielding, yet soft and accepting. She is a contradiction, and that is completely fine. 

Her arms are around him now, and her body is hugging him so tightly that he feels like he may burst. Their tongues are darting together, and their lips are sealed, nothing short of a sword can seperate them now. 

Cersei could rain down on them, could set every single one of her knights upon them and it wouldn’t matter because this was here and now, and nothing in this world could seperate them, could take them apart. 

He is hers, completely and utterly, as their kisses just become shared breaths into each others’ mouths. 

He is burning up from the inside, the sharp coil of sensation curling tighter and tighter and tighter in his belly. She is crying, tears on her face, and Jon doesn’t know if she knows that those tears are sparkling in the light of the fire. She is crying and gasping, and this is like nothing else he has ever experienced before. It is that time, that moment when you feel so strongly about someone else that there is just nothing for it. 

There is nothing, he knows now, that could have stopped this from happening. This was as inevitable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, as immoveable as Westeros itself. 

Time, time, and she clamps down around his length, her gasps twining together, and he makes his first sound, nothing but a gasp of her name; _‘Daenerys,’_ and that is enough, for now. 

He spills inside her with a great groan, and a gasp that matches her own, their mingled breaths filling the almost-nonexistent space between them. 

This is the end, and the beginning. This is the crescendo of the song, the climax of the battle. 

This is the moment where their two threads of life become a single, thick, strong thread that cannot break. This is the spark and explosion as their fires both meet together and burn brightly and hotly, brighter than anything else in existence. 

Jon feels like he can actually see the gods, sitting up in their clouds. He feels like he can sense every spark of life around them, and none are burning brighter than theirs, right now. 

Because this is the right now. This is them, and this is their world, narrowed down to a single point, to a single spark, to a single being. Nothing else matters, right now, other than the sensation of her against him, her panting breaths against his own, her body under him. 

Miles and miles of skin pressed together — and if he could take her into his body, protect her, and keep her like a jewel, he would. She would hate that, but he would do it, he would keep her safe, he would see her dream realised, at any and all costs.

This was what he had fought all these long years for, and now that he had had a taste, there was no going back. He will fight for decades more to keep this, to have this to come home to. 

Because, in his mind, the war is already won. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left wonderful comments for me so far — they have been very meaningful and motivating, not to mention all the kudos. The response to this little piece of my brain has been great, and please, any future readers, all feedback is welcome. And thank you, one more time!   
> TaraethysHolmes


End file.
